


Project Alexandria

by aureliefixated



Category: Maximum Ride - James Patterson
Genre: Ballet, Eventual Romance, Evil Corporations, F/F, F/M, Islands, Laboratories, M/M, Mad Scientists, Romance, Science Experiments, Science Fiction, Shapeshifting, Wings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:22:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28498266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliefixated/pseuds/aureliefixated
Summary: *Disclaimer* FAN FICTION I'm going to be completely blunt and say I don't acknowledge the Maximum Ride series after Book 3(STWAOES will always be my fave). I don't really like the direction it took and the plot started to become a little choppy but I do like the idea of an island to house refugee science experiments so I'm keeping that. This is also a new character being introduced into the Maximum Ride universe.Alexandria has been told she's special her whole life: she was Itexicon's first (successful) experiment created in the womb. Showcased around the world like a prize, she's supposed to exemplify a new age of genetic engineering and restore Itex's reputation that has taken five years to rebuild.  When an old friend reveals who she really is and what she is capable of, Alexandria will soon discover that the world isn't what she thought it was. Soon she is thrust into a new environment where she is no longer the only "special one," where everyone has to take care of themselves, and where she will have to get along with the very people responsible for tearing her life apart.*The Maximum Ride characters belong to James Patterson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

I open my eyes to complete and total darkness. A normal person wouldn't be able to see their hand in front of them. Not me. I thrived in the dark. Blackout curtains fastened with fabric tape and thumb tacks cover the windows; curtain rods would just let the light in from the top. A bath towel Is stuffed under the gap of the door. _The light will not harm me here._ I exhale as a plume of condensation escapes my lips. I bring the covers up to my chin, the silk sheets a slippery kiss on my bare skin as the weight of the duvet trap me within its warm embrace.

I never want to leave.

My peaceful paradise is suddenly disrupted with impatient banging on the door.

"Ms. Shelly, time to get up! Make yourself presentable, I'm opening the door in five minutes!"

I groan and lazily glance at the clock: 4:55. The ceremony isn't until later tonight, and yet I have to be awake at the crack of bloody dawn. I lay there and contemplate faking my own death or pretending I can't hear the incessant pounding, anything that could give me five more hours in this bed.

"Four minutes Ms. Shelly!"

I reluctantly lift the covers and the frigid air latches onto my body, sending goosebumps across every inch of me. I step onto the cool floor and wrap my arms around myself. _It's fucking freezing_. The weather in Chepelyovo has been nothing but unkind since we've arrived and I've been miserable ever since. I practically run to the accent chair and snatch the robe off the armrest and hastily shove my arms into its fleece-lined sleeves. It's rare times like these where I long for a fire. I gaze at the empty fireplace--fire would only bring light, which is not welcome here.

"Three minutes!"

I return to my bed and shove my arms into the covers, waving them against the mattress until I run my hands over a warm ball of fluff. A defiant growl cuts through the silence and the fluff ball swims deeper into the ocean of covers. I manage to snag one of her legs and drag her out, her growls growing louder and I soon feel the sharp sting of her claws digging into my arms. Nyla's a fighter but so am I. I refuse to soldier the cold alone. I manage to drag fury incarnate out of the sheets until I watch with indignation as her body begins to grow. The timbre of Nyla's shrill growl lowers into a deep rumble. Her fluffy delicate fur sheds in large clumps onto the bed and in return, a course rough coat takes its place. A hind-leg small enough to fit between my index and thumb grows so large I have to wrap both my hands around it. _Madge is not going to love that_

"Not fair, Nyla!"

My cranky domestic house cat has shifted into a rather large and predatory tiger. She wrenches her leg out of my grasp and wriggles back under the sheets. _You coldhearted bitch_.

"One more minute, Ms. Shelly!"

I can't stall any longer, we would have to finish this another time. _You win this round._ I grab my goggles on my nightstand and strap them on. They're more like blackout goggles, like my eyes are enclosed in a box. They're absolutely horrendous. They constrict around my head and by the end of the day, I have tender marks where the goggles had been. I sigh as I sink into the accent chair. My bed is only two leaps and bounds away. I could join Nyla under the covers and leech off of her warmth, but today is a big day and jostling of the doorknob and the subsequent sliver of light ruined any chances of me returning to dark and toasty bliss.

Bugger it, let's get this over with.


	2. Chapter 2

"You couldn't bother to remove the towel now, could you?"

I wince as the light from the hallway begins to creep into the room. Even with the goggles, my eyes are still sensitive to what little light is in the room. I would rather have this than no goggles though, I made that mistake once: in a failed attempt at rebellion, I ripped the curtains open in spite, and in return, I was completely incapacitated until Madge found me incapacitated underneath my bed three hours later. Never again.

"Do get up, child!" Madge demands as she wrestles with the door.

I rush to her side and manage to yank the towel free with enough time to shield my eyes before Madge whips the door open and wheels her trolley into the room.

"I shouldn't have to tell you to removed that damned towel every morning, but here I am, every morning, telling you to remove that damned towel!" Madge reprimands me as the glass containers and stoneware jingle against the uneven flooring. 

"And every morning I forget which is why I have you, Madge!" I tease, innocently batting my eyelashes in her direction despite the fact that she can't even see them.

"You are eighteen year old, soon-to-be nineteen! At some point, some things should just stick!"

I watch with dread as she makes her way towards the light switch. I avert my gaze in preparation for what is to come. With a click of the switch, the rays of light shoot through my goggles and into my eyes. The pain comes instantly, but it's bearable. It feels like my pupils are trying to constrict but can't, and I can feel the muscles straining relentlessly. They'll continue to do so until I welcome the darkness again. Although garish, my goggles are a godsend. I am at least able to see some color, everything is just extremely blurred. Without them, the dull pain becomes acute and unforgiving, as if needles are trying to drag my pupils closed. The skull-splitting migraines come shortly after, then the nausea and subsequent vomiting, then the dehydration. It was a miracle we were able to find Madge when we did, otherwise I probably wouldn't have even lived to learn how to walk.

Madge finally wheels the trolley to the corner of my room where she begins to set my little table for breakfast.

"Tell me again why Russia, of all places, was the best possible destination in the middle of February?" I protest through chattering teeth as I seat myself away from the covered window.

"Don't be daft, girl, you know your father needs investors," Madge chides. "Mr. Gorbachev is the most resourceful candidate for what we need. You can't sell to a potential buyer on foreign land."

"This _land_ is a bloody graveyard," I grumble underneath my breath. If I had my way, no money in the world could convince me to even think about stationing myself anywhere near Santa's arsehole, but like most things, that isn't the case.

My father is well off, but we have no actual source of residual income. We normally get by through grants authorized by Itex, but after the events in Germany, and the Board's trust in my father waning by the day, our funds have been cut substantially. My father found this old place through a friend of a friend who owed him a favor, and he offered to let me stay here for practically nothing—for obvious reasons—so my father obliged without hesitation. I miss Oxford. Even though the rain always left behind a musky smell that resided just in time for the next storm to roll around, it was far more bearable than the frigid climate here. My room was at the top of our manor—funded by Itex, of course—a repurposed observatory with a glass dome overlooking the vast and infinite sky. My favorite time of the month was when the new moon came; it was the only time the light was dim enough that I could look at all the stars before I slept, the only time I could see anything other than muffled silhouettes.

Madge places my breakfast in front of me and removes the metal cloche. I don't have to feel around my food to know the usual half a grapefruit, egg-white and mushroom omelet, and a slice of toast. A sane person would liken this meal to cardboard, but since I am indubitably _in_ sane, and unfortunately unable to taste anything, this meal will suffice just fine. I do so enjoy the bland taste of grapefruit juice, it really complements the flat undertones from the veggies in my omelet. The toast adds quite the savorless crunch that overall solidifies the marriage of this flavorless dish. You could add all the salt in the world and I wouldn't taste a thing, my only solace is texture, temperature, and heat. She then hands me a cup of tea. It barely reaches my fingertips and I can already feel the heat dissipating into the chilling air, leaving behind lukewarm leaf water in its stead.

"I hate this goddamn country," I declare with an exasperated groan. I push my cup to the side.

With automated blackout shades and regulated climate control, my room in Oxford was my modern Elysium. This house, on the other hand, is an antiquated Tartarus, outdated with no proper heating system and poorly insulated walls. They rely on archaic technology like radiators and fireplaces and my room just so happens to be the only one with a broken radiator.

"Always so melodramatic, this one," Madge mutters to herself while reaching for the medicine tray, grabbing the sphygmomanometer to take my blood pressure. "You know, you should be honored to be here with your father. Soon it will be your duty to-"

"To pioneer this world into a new age and restore its delicate balance," I finish her sentence and take a bite out of my toast. "Yes Madge, I am aware of my duties." She then pushes up my layers of sleeves and wraps the cuff around my arm. I've learned the hard way to keep still while she does this. After what seems like a millennia of pins and needles, she finally releases the pressure from my arm. Blood pressure is normal, thank god. The stethoscope is next; I wince as the cold metal stings my chest, but I know what to expect. After playing doctor with Madge when I was little, I found out my heart beats significantly faster than hers; faster than anyone's, really. I was so scared, I had finally come to understand the concept of death and the fragility of life at that point and was terrified that my heart would suddenly explode at a moment's notice. I ran to my father and told him I was dying and that I was too young to die. He grabbed me by the shoulders and told me Death himself would have to pry my father's hands from mine before they took me away. He then wrapped me in his arms and we cuddled by the fire until I fell asleep. _By the fire? But-_

"Anyone else would be grateful to be chosen for this once in a lifetime opportunity!" Madge continues her argument, yanking me out of my memories. I can't remember why I was so confused anymore. "'You've been born to privilege and with that comes specific obligations!'" She offers me a glass of water in one hand and a myriad of pills in the other.

I bring my fingertips to my chest in feigned offense before I take the water and drugs from her. "Don't ever bring Drew into this, I know my place!" I dramatically wave my hands, careful not to spill the already freezing water, and maniacally rattle the pills in my hand like dice."Look at me, Madge, I'm a fraud!" I yell with a mouth full of toast. I shove the pills into my already full mouth and take a massive gulp of ice cold water. "How the hell am I supposed to convince investors that my father created the 'perfect human being' when I'm practically falling apart? Perfect people aren't riddled with glaucoma, heart murmurs, and anemia!" With my newly freed hand, I sweep my curly hair aside and motion at my ears. "How are we going to hide _these_?"

I may be blind as a bat but even I can feel that my ears are not normal. Running my fingers along their outlines, I can tell they stick out. Slender as they are, they rest slightly higher up my face than Madge's and fine hairs grow like peach fuzz on the skin. These are not the ears of a perfect human being and if Mr. Gorbachev sees them, my father is done for.

Madge lets out a deep sigh and spins my chair to face her, grasping my shoulders with her pale bony hands. "Listen to me, pet: everything will fall into place. No one is going to see them. We'll cover them with your hair like we always do," she reassures me as she wraps one of my long coils around her index finger. "Just try not to touch your face and you'll be just fine."

Her reassurance is calming, but then I remember what my father has in store for the showcase. I let out a groan and droop my forehead onto her stomach. "I'm performing tomorrow," I muffle into her knitted jumper.

"We'll swoop your hair over your ears, the feather crown will cover them anyway, and then you'll wear it down for dinner, see? Easy peasy!"

I feel her arms envelope me in a warm hug and I wrap my own around her waist. The stakes must be really high if she's going to use the words "easy peasy" in a sentence, but I'm thankful for them anyway and I'm glad she's here with me now. I've known Madge for as long as I can remember. She'd been assigned to me as my Handler since birth. She's tough as nails around everyone raise but with me, she's a complete softie. She would never apologize for anything but would make up for it with actions: she wouldn't yank as hard when doing my hair or she would give me extra movie time before bed. She doesn't trust anyone else to take care of me the way she does, which worries me. What was going to happen when she got too old? Madge wasn't exactly ancient, but she was as far from her youth as I was from old age. I couldn't even imagine my life without her, with so much of it relying on her for my survival.

"Don't worry about the presentation now," she says softly while running her fingers through my hair, detangling my curls as she goes down. "Today is a big day! Have you decided what to include in your speech?"

I lean back against my chair attempt to finish my breakfast, which is very cold now. Without looking at her, I say reluctantly, "I was thinking I could maybe speak about Germany?"

"Absolutely not! Your father would never approve!" I can hear the disapproving tone in her voice as she places her hands on her hips.

"He said I have creative freedom to write about whatever I want! What's the point of giving someone creative freedom if you're just going to shut down the choices they make?" I defiantly cross my arms.

"People don't need to be reminded of such an embarrassment. Besides, I'm not the one you need to convince, child. Your father wants to see you after rehearsal to prepare for tonight, you'll speak to him then. Pray he actually says yes." I turn away from her and despondently spoon the last bits of grapefruit chunks into my mouth. 

Madge collects my plate from the table as I get up to change. "You eat like a starved beggar," she utters.

"Really? I thought I ate that rather slow, now that I'm thinking about it," I tease back.

I hear Madge scoff behind me.

"Honestly, Madge, what's there to savor?" I chuckle. I slip out of my robe and remove my jumper over my head. "I can't taste anything anyway, why waste time?"

"A lady doesn't shovel food down her gullet!"

"Madge, that was a formality! Besides, it only applies to my father. I don't have to be tied down by those stupid rules."

"Whatever you do reflects back onto your father, who now represents Itex. No matter how much you fight it, love, you're just as bound to the title as he is."

I respond with as much maturity and class I can muster by sticking my tongue out while I shimmy out of my trousers. Before being recruited by Itex, my father was a renowned genetic engineer. While studying for his doctorate at Oxford, he wrote his dissertation on modifying the genetic makeup of staple foods in developing countries to provide more nutrients and combat world hunger. His paper and subsequent experiments in the Philippines were successful enough to warrant attention from Her Majesty the Queen, who then granted him the title of "Sir" and royally fucked up our whole family dynamic. 

I finally manage remove my thermal undershirt before immediately trembling from the frigid air, and kneel down under my bed in search of my luggage.

"That better be a mound of pillows under those covers or I swear on the Almighty above, I will skin that animal alive," I hear Madge seethe through her teeth.

Shit. I forgot about Nyla.


	3. Chapter 3

"What mound?" Still under the bed, I use my most innocent-sounding voice. Despite my lack of life experience, I've learned playing dumb can get you out of a lot of dodgy situations.

"Don't play coy with me, child! I thought we agreed no shifting allowed indoors! And no beasts in the bed!"

Madge hates animals; more specifically, Nyla. She doesn't believe in the symbiotic relationship between man and animal. "They either belong in the wild or on my dinner plate," she'd always say. "They have no place sharing the same bed you or I would sleep in!" I would then be forced to endure a thirty minute diatribe on zoonotic diseases and personal hygiene.

It doesn't help matters that Nyla could be many animals. She's a shapeshifter, able to transform her body into any species within the family _Felidae_. Basically, she is constantly mutating. She's become relatively quick with shifting lately, but when we were young, shifting was slow and exhausting. Back then, she would be out cold for days if she were to shift from a tiny rusty spotted cat to a mighty Siberian tiger. Now, she can shift into a couple different species a day with ease, no matter the size, only needing a quick power nap to replenish her energy. Well, in addition to her regular sleep schedule. One small caveat to her amazing abilities is the mess that she leaves behind. Sure, Nyla _could_ shift into multiple species a day, but she sheds all the fur from her previous form. The bigger the cat, the bigger the fur pile, and the angrier the Madge.

"Well if you _must_ know, last night was so awfully dreadful! The radiator's not working and poor thing, she was shaking like a leaf! As a devout follower of the divine, it is my sacred duty to look after the less fortunate!" _This is complete bullshit and you know it._ I'm practically lying through my teeth but I know I would never hear the end of it if she found out Nyla shifted because I was bothering her. I've given a top-notch performance, but is it enough to subdue the Handler?

"Do you know how hard it is to get cat hair out of bedsheets? Of course you don't, because if it weren't for me, we'd find your suffocated body on an episode of _Hoarders: Across the Pond_ because you tripped into a pile of your things!" Madge is on the offensive, delivering a half-true statement. Both contenders are evenly matched, but who will tip the scale in their favor? 

"It's called organized chaos, and I wouldn't trip over piles of clothes if you didn't move said piles around all the time!" 

"Well may I suggest organized order? That way you wont have to navigate your own bedroom like a bloody labyrinth!" An excellent point, folks. A blow like this will surely stop my momentum, but I'm desperate to win. I pull the only sure-win card I have left.

"It's not easy having a designated place when you move from place to place too often to remember where exactly that is! That and well, you know, I'm _blind_."

The silence from Madge's end suggests a possible surrender. My inability to see during the day doesn't entirely bother me, but for some odd reason, it's a big soft spot for everyone else. "I'll have your father look into the broken radiator," She didn't bring up the fact that I can see just fine in the dark (minus the color)! I can simply imply the B-word and I can end an argument! Well, you heard it here, folks! Madge has lost the match, relinquishing her title as reigning champion!

"If I may speak on behalf of my feline friend as well as myself, we humbly thank you for your generosity and will greatly appreciate a working radiator," I say with a smug smile. Nyla's tail peeks out from under the covers and twitches from side to side.

Madge turns away from me to put everything back onto the cart and grumbles what I can only guess as "cheeky bastard" under her breath. I finally get dressed when Madge approaches me with a brush. I let out a whimper in anticipation.

...

"If you had braided your hair last night like I told you this wouldn't hurt so much!" Madge chastises me as she yanks the brush through my matted nest of hair. 

We've been trying to detangle my hair for what seems like hours, and my face has been stretched to capacity, but Madge finally manages to put my hair in a bun. My hairline has without a doubt taken a hit from this painful ordeal. _Note to self: must braid hair so not be bald._ She then hands me my duffel and we (i.e. me) are ready to start the day.


	4. Chapter 4

"Finally, heat!" I thank the heavens as waves of hot air from the heater blow onto my frost-bitten cheeks.

"Welcome to Itex Russia, where we strive today for a better future tomorrow." Itex's slogan echoes in the lobby in her trademark artificially friendly tone, cutting through the power tools and construction throughout the new building. Everywhere I go, it's the same voice, the only difference is the language. I stomp off as much snow from my boots as I can on the mat while Madge kisses me on my head before going her separate way. One of my bodyguards, Ivan, walks from behind me to the receptionist's desk and asks her for some tissues, while jerking his head in what could only guess as my direction. Unfortunately for me, the house we're staying at is about an hour's drive to Moscow. Car rides are very soothing for me and since I'm not allowed to have the window seat--for security reasons--I ended up falling asleep on Ivan's shoulder. Fun little fact about me: I drool. A lot.

"C'mon Ivan, it wasn't that bad!" I follow him as I reassure him in fluent Russian.

"If someone spilled a cup of water on my other shoulder, I wouldn't have been able to tell the difference," he complains as he dabs my drool spot with the tissues.

Shaking my head, I make my way to the locker room. I feel Nyla's presence and her muzzle gently pushes me away from hitting the walls until I reach the locker room doors. I feel the lockers with my fingertips until I reach mine, second row down, third one from the left. As soon as i get it open--the damned buttons are so close together--I peel off my layers one by one, careful not to mess up Madge's bun and relive this morning again. Courtesy of Itex's Fashion Department, we get to test drive their self-heating coats and I must say: 1. being the daughter of the new (after tonight) Director definitely has its perks and 2. I really, really hope I don't burst into flames. I swap my comfy jumper and long johns for tights and athletic wear and mentally brace myself for what can only be described as "let your toddler run in circles for thirty minutes until they knock themselves out."

...

My body burns with the fire of a thousand suns as Irina yells into my ear to follow the music after dropping the ball (literally) for the umpteenth time. 

"One and two and three and four and--feel the music! Drown out the white noise! When you go on stage, the ones with the worst rhythm will be the first ones to clap!" She shouts, loud and strident, as she claps off-beat. I've been taught almost every dance around the world and of all the shit my father has me do for my showcases, rhythmic gymnastics has to be the worst of them all. The stakes are so high, and the discipline and preparation it takes to get you to that floor doesn't seem worth it to me to only be out there for 90 seconds and retire at 20. That and the fact that I can't catch this stupid bloody ball between my stupid bloody legs! Rhythmic gymnastics a pretty big thing here in Russia; they practically pay you to represent them in the Olympics. Itex, being the expert in the art of arse-kissery, has had me start training since I was seven in the hopes that one day, i.e. tomorrow, they could finally lock down Russia. It didn't help matters that I was abnormally nimble and flexible, which was enough proof to everyone that I was destined for artistic prowess. 

Winning the hearts and pockets of wary investors has been my job for years. We graduated from the "cute kid in a tutu" angle, but in the end, they always pay up; the offer is always too high a price to refuse. Campaigning in all those other countries has been almost way too easy. This, however, is the big leagues (that's what Americans say, right?). Russia, being the last location we need to fully disseminate Itex's influence across the globe, and Mr. Gorbachev being the richest investor in the country to make that happen, needed their arses kissed and by god, Itex will kiss arse like they've never kissed arse before. So, when they tell my father, "I need you to fly to Russia to convince the richest old-money-family to invest in our company so we can bump you up to Director and finally pay you real money for all the work you've done for us instead of handing out expired meal vouchers and shitty sleeping accommodations," he says, "how soon can I go?" When they tell me, "I need you to jump through literal hoops in the hopes that you're able to convince a wealthy man that the perfect human specimen does in fact exist and if he's willing to chip in a couple quid he and his future descendants could quite possibly come out of this thing far richer and powerful than he could possibly imagine and as payment for tap dancing across the globe there an off chance that we might possible somewhat be able to fund your dance career," I say "how high do you want me to toss the bloody thing?" 

The rubber ball, once again, whooshes past my thighs and bounces off to oblivion as Annie Lennox's cover of "I Put a Spell on You" plays on repeat amongst the sounds of power drills and hammers. We've been at this for hours; I've only been able to go through my entire ball routine once without fail with only small corrections, like lifting my leg higher or nailing smoother turns. After Irina told me to go again to prove it wasn't just dumb luck, the construction workers conveniently decided to resume working and I've been stuck on the first risk throw ever since. I realize now that the ball hasn't come back down; it's probably stuck in the bars. This is a sign from the Universe that I need a break. 

I slump down onto the floor in defeat, spreading out my limbs as I try to catch my breath. I lay an arm over my goggles to shield my eyes from the florescent lights piercing through the film. Heavy and angry footsteps make their way towards me.

"What are you doing?" Irina's foot taps a little too close to my face.

"Wallowing in shame," I miserably declare, switching my arms and turning my face away from her.

She takes my free hand and tries to jerk me upwards. "Get up!"

I finally allow her to hoist me up and she aggressively grips my shoulders. "We do not give up after three hours of failure! _You English always surrender before you attempt to see even a sliver of victory!_ " She switches fromEnglish to Russian and makes her way to the remote to start the song over.

"That's the French!" I correct her in her language; she always forgets I understand what she's saying. "And I'm not giving up! I've just been doing this throw over and over again and it's not working! There's too much noise going on for me to concentrate!"

Irina whips around to me and grabs my chin, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough to be extremely uncomfortable. "What are you!"

I don't answer. I can already feel my eyes warming but I won't let her hear the waver in my voice. My toes grip the rubber mats on the floor through my toe shoes to ground myself. She jerks my chin closer to her face and I can feel her fingernails start to dig into my jaw. 

"An athlete," I mumble, turning my eyes away from her. Thank god for these goggles.

"You're not a little girl anymore, Alexandria, you're not a human being, you are an athlete! Act like it!" She pushes my chin out of her face.

It's taking everything in me not to cry, but I have to contain myself. We heard horror stories from previous clients of hers about her temper, my other coaches hadn't ever been this rough with me, but my father thought it would instill discipline and a thick skin. All it's done is make me hate rhythmic gymnastics and instill a sense of dread every time I hear her voice. 

"You cannot give into panic, Alexandria! Once you let in an ounce of fear, your routine is over! You hear me? Done!"

Irina suddenly looks up to the ceiling, and after a couple of seconds, I hear the high-pitched beeping from my ball get louder until it reunites with the matted floor again. Nyla, back as a little house cat, meows from the beams. That's one of the only reasons why she's allowed to sit in during my training: she's the only one who can get the balls from the ceiling.

Unfazed, she faces me again. "You want to catch the ball? Tune out the noise! The only thing you need to focus on is the beeping from that fucking ball! Do you think you are capable of something so simple?"

Does she think I'm stupid? Is she really trying to ignore the obvious? "This would be a whole lot easier if I could _see_ where the ball is going! You act like I'm perfectly capable of knowing where it is at all times but I'm not!"

"Oh please, that is such a bullshit excuse! It may work on everyone else, but not me! I know what you can do and yet you don't push yourself!"

I wish she could see me rolling my eyes because I am definitely rolling them now. I stomp to the chair and pick up the ball, the movement triggering the motion sensors to emit the beeping noise. She doesn't know what she's talking about, not in the slightest. 

Irina continues her tirade as I set the ball down next to me and begin to loosen my body up again. "If it were up to me, I'd have you working twice as hard for twice as long! Your father babies you too much!"

"If it were up to me, you wouldn't be here," I retort back, slowly realizing what I have just said.

Irina grabs my chin again. "Let me make one thing perfectly clear: you need me, not the other way around," she says, annunciating every word with cold malice.

A low growl cuts the tension between us as Nyla stalks her way to me. I feel her rub against my side and she puts herself between us, breaking Irina's hand away from my face with her body, now a lioness. Irina lets out a sharp exhale but says nothing else. All there is now is the sound of heavy machinery and banging on the walls. After what seems like forever, Irina finally speaks. The flames seem to have gone out from her eyes now, and Nyla leaves my side to return to her corner of the room.

"As a gymnast, it is crucial you know how to recover from a mistake; otherwise everything you've worked for would be for nothing. You have to understand that no matter what, on the floor or off, you cannot crack under pressure.

"Close your eyes." I reluctantly obey. "There is no construction, there is no music, just listen to the ball. Feel the rhythm under your feet."

I take a deep breath and try to do what she says. I could probably pop a brain vessel from how hard I'm trying to concentrate, but soon enough, everything slowly begins to fade away. A single pulse from the bass signals me to begin my routine. My eyes still closed, I go through the movements with no distractions, letting the ball flow across my body during my exchanges, rolling it between my hands, cradled in my palm during my pirouette, and finally leading up to the first risk throw. I toss the ball into the air, the beeping becoming more and more distant. While doing my double pirouette, I focus my ears on the ball. _A little more to the right_. I lengthen my tumble to cover more distance, open my knees and-

I catch the ball with my thighs. 

I'm performing on a high now, breezing through the entire thing with ease, catching the rest of my risk throws like it's nothing before I even realized I've finished my routine. I look in Irina's direction. I hate that she was right.

"You adjusted your tumble," she observes.

"I did," I reply back.

"Again."

I return to my starting point and focus like she told me, the world slipping away as each seconds passes. I wait for the pulse and do the routine over again, this time without any mistakes. I open my eyes again and wait. 

"Again!"


	5. Chapter 5

"You know, it would be nice, for once, if Irina could hand you off to me in one piece," Madame Baton complains in French after I had practically plopped into her room. Irina made me repeat my routine at least twenty times, restarting immediately after I finished the last time.

"That would be nice, wouldn't it?" I say dryly, stretched into a middle split while I finish sewing ribbons onto my brand new pointe shoes.

"She acts like her ninety second routine is far more important than our 16 minute show!" she huffs.

I crush the box of the shoes with my bare hands to soften it for quieter landings. The glue inside crackles with a satisfying crunch.

Madame Baton crouches to face me, gently taking my hands in hers. "I hope she wasn't too harsh with you," she says softly in English, her velvety timbre a refreshing change from Irina's strict and icy tone.

I hang my head and bite the inside of my lip, but my tears finally flow from the events of this morning. I hate how small Irina makes me feel, and I really hate how Madame Baton makes me realize how small Irina makes me feel. She's so warm and fun. She respects me enough as a person to listen to my ideas, and we work as a team to create something that I'd actually enjoy. Irina made me do a routine that helped one of her previous students win the National Championship. I couldn't make any adjustments. Other than that stupid ball. 

Madame Baton cups a hand on the side of my face and my tears collect at the bottom of my goggles. "Pay no attention to her, _chérie._ It's not her fault she's had a stick stuck up her ass eversince she didn't qualify for the Olympics."

Her crudeness shocks me enough to laugh, breaking me free from my thoughts.

"Look at it this way," she pops up from her crouch, "after tomorrow, you will never have to work with her again and you and I will have more girl time. How does that sound?"

I finish snapping the shanks from my shoes and I give her a big smile. "That sounds great. Thank you, Madame."

"Dria,if you do not start calling me by my first name, I will surely turn into my mother, and she has enough wrinkles for the both of us!" She flamboyantly places a hand on her chest before sauntering out of the room. I learn from the best.

"Yes, Camille," I chuckle to myself. As I hear the heavy doors slam shut, I close my eyes and shake the goggles free of my tears, the skin around my face finally free from hours of taut pressure around my eyes. I return them to my face and slip my feet into my pointe shoes to test my handiwork. I flex each foot, back and forth, adjusting the ribbons around my ankle, and repeat the process when I stand. Grasping the barre, I go up on pointe. It's a familiar and welcome feeling, being on my toes. Rhythmic gymnastics is one thing but this--I could do this forever. The payoff to me is more worthwhile, you can tell a story without uttering a single word. Your facial expressions, where you place your hands--it all means something. There could be a hundred people in the room from different parts of the world and they would still be able to understand the gist of a single variation because a dancer--a good dancer--was able to relay that message to them. That is what I would love to do, more than anything, for the rest of my life, but I can't. 

The doors burst open and scatter the melancholy thoughts in my head as Camille returns with the other dancers, shuffling their feet across the vinyl floors. A gentle hand taps me on my shoulder, and I turn to face my dance partner, Henry.

"Are you excited for tomorrow?" he asks me in his usual spritely voice as he playfully tugs at my wrap skirt. 

"As long as you don't drop me," I grin. 

The piano bench croaks under the sudden weight of the pianist and he begins to play Chopin's "Nocturne in E-flat major" as Camille has us all begin our warmups. It's all muscle memory for me; the exact angle my leg should be in a _developpé,_ what muscles and micro movements I need to make my arms flow like a winding river, it's as easy as breathing. It's enough brainless work to let my mind switch to autopilot, and for the smallest moment of the day, I don't have to think about anything. I'm not thinking about Mr. Gorbachev, the impending dread of failure, none of it; I can just focus on my breathing.

Camille signals us to move to the barres to the side; I can hear Henry and another dancer struggle to lift one of them and clumsily shuffle to the wall, letting out staggered breaths and grunts of muscle strain. I flash Henry a smirk and effortlessly lift one of the remaining barres with one hand and sashay my way to the edge of the room.

"Show off," he heckles with a playful punch to my arm.

"You wish you were as strong as me," ridicule him as we head to the center of the room to finish our warm ups.

...

I sit across from Henry during our break, our feet pressed together in middle splits while we feed each other grapes and cheese, gruyere for him and chipotle cheddar for me. 

"Once we're no longer at risk of dying from hypothermia, we should definitely hang out some time," Henry feeds me another cube of cheese. "You'd love Brighton."

The heat of the peppers creeps to the back of my tongue and my throat, giving my mouth a sensation other than nothing. I met Henry the day I arrived in Russia. He and the other dancers had been hired by Itex to help me win Mr. Money Bags over and Camille thought it best for us to get to know each other to build trust. We ended up sharing a lot of interests and formed a genuine friendship over the past three weeks, but I know it's only temporary. 

"You know I can't leave until my dad gives the OK, and that doesn't seem like it's going to be any time soon," I lament as I hold out a grape for him to take; I made the mistake of trying to find his mouth before with apples and peanut butter. It wasn't a clean guess.

Henry takes the grape out of my hand with his teeth, the crunch of the berry escaping his open mouth as he chews. God, this man needs to learn how to chew with his mouth closed.

"You're eighteen, right? Your father can't really tell you what to do anymore; you could just leave with us."

I widen my eyes at his blatant disregard for reality. I'm not just anyone's child who can leave whenever they see fit; I have obligations and responsibilities to my father and to Itex that Henry can't seem to comprehend. "It's not that simple," is all I can reply to him.

Even if my father says we can go back to Oxford, I know I won't have any time for friends. Besides, I'm not an idiot. I'm smart enough to recognize Henry's empty promises of hangouts and get togethers are just that: empty. I can foresee myself impatiently waiting for a phone call, getting overly excited when the phone rings, and being ultimately disappointed to hear it's a colleague asking for my father instead. I can also hear in his voice that he his much older than me, probably in his thirties, which doesn't exactly scream "age-appropriate friendship." But friends are hard to come by these days, so for the sake of my sanity, I'll take whatever ounce of companionship I can get wherever I can get it.

"Whatever. Whenever you're in the area, just give me a call." _Yeah, like that's ever going to happen._

"Of course!" 

"What are you wearing to the showcase?" He feeds me another cheese cube, this time his fingers linger a bit too long for comfort. _Um, this is new... what the bloody hell does he think he's doing?_

I pull away and look at the plate of snacks to avoid his eyes. "Uh, I don't know yet. My dad won't let me see it until tomorrow so it's a surprise." Is this even worth a superficial and fleeting friendship? "He probably picked out something from the local nunnery or something," I joke to change the tone of the conversation.

He doesn't seem to have noticed my subtle rejection and whispers closer to my face, "I bet you'd look stunning in a paper bag."

I nervously laugh it off, still avoiding his face. Clearly, I need to recalibrate my gaydar because I was off by... I can't even think of a number. Camille clapping to start dress rehearsal is my saving grace and I shoot up from our joint splits to speed walk to the center of the floor for rehearsal. 

Camille and I choreographed a mini ballet around Giuseppe Tartini's "Violin Sonata in G minor," or more commonly known as the "Devil's Trill Sonata." Camille did most of the choreography, especially since I can't really see what the other dancers are doing, but I was the one who choreographed my solos and I picked the music after hearing it in the car from the airport. I remember feeling so energized and inspired, I practically ran into Itex Russia to find Camille, only to realize Camille's plane from Paris wasn't supposed to land until the next day, I didn't know the layout yet, and ran goggles-first into a wall. 

The story behind the sonata is: the Devil visits Tartini in his dreams and makes a pact to serve Tartini in exchange for his soul. Tartini agrees and hands the Devil his violin. He asks the Devil to play for him and the Devil plays with such artistry and beauty it jolts Tartini from his deep sleep. He desperately tries to grasp a hold of as much of the sonata as he can from the already fleeting memory, but alas, he is never able to replicate the Devil's work to its fullest potential. Camille is set to play Giuseppe Tartini, Henry will play the Devil, I will be Tartini's violin, and the rest of the dancers will play the Devil's minions. The ballet will be split into the sonata's four respective movements; the orchestra had to compose a beginning piece for Tartini's pre-Devil introduction that sounded similar to his style but we made it work. We start with the introduction, then we have first Pas de Deux with Henry in the _larghetto affetuoso,_ I have my first solo in the _allegro moderato_ , the second Pas de Deux in the _andante_ , and we finally interchange between Pas De Deuxs and solos in the final movement, the _allegro assai-andante-allegro assai_. 

...

"Make sure you're taking longer to remove your hand from his face; it should be a reluctant separation. Remember, you used to love Tartini, but now you've fallen for another."

I begrudgingly follow her critiques, my fingertips tenderly caressing Henry's jaw as we look into each other's eyes--well, eyes and goggles. He's probably loving this right now. Who's the idiot who thought making the violin a sentient being who falls in love with the Devil a good idea? Oh yeah: me. I'm the idiot. I'm then pulled away by one of the Devil's minions and they swarm around me, eventually lifting me into the air and tossing me over to a nearby swarm of other minions. It's ok; I'm pretty light. They catch me and let me down in a whirlwind of chaos: one of them is pulling me one way, another tossing me into a catch lift, and another grabbing me and swinging me under his legs and around his body, all the while I'm trying to reunite with my newfound lover. I made a few adjustments to the story, breathing life into the originally inanimate instrument. When Tartini asks the Devil to play for him, the Devil brings the violin to life and seduces her--who was initially loyal to only Tartini--into falling in love with him instead. In the end, the Devil reveals his true colors, punishes the violin for her disloyalty, and leaves with his minions back to hell, abandoning her forever. She then vows to never again play with as much passion as when she was with him, and Tartini in turn will never be able to replicate the Devil's beautiful yet volatile sonata. Depressing, I know, but what's an epic ballet without a bit of tragedy? I'm so proud of the work Camille and I put into this performance, I'll finally show my father and Itex that I have ideas, that I'm more than just a moving piece in their game for power.

I'll show them.


	6. Chapter 6

"Floor Nine."

Of all the godawful, absolute bullshit days I've had to endure so far, this one takes the cake!

"'Ms. Shelly, you've been training for hours, poor thing! Why don't we make it easier for you, love, and have a functioning lift for your tired limbs! Or better yet, why don't we schedule lift maintenance when you're in training _for ten fucking hours_!'" I shout to no one in an empty and cold stairwell. 

A cheerful chirp echoes behind me as Nyla, in her house cat form, weaves between my legs and takes the lead up the stairs. 

"Oh I'm sorry, Nyla," I sarcastically apologize while dragging my laden limbs up the steep steps. "Am I too slow for Her Majesty? You know, instead of lying around all day, some of us had to actually work!"

She replies with another chirp before she disappears onto the next floor. I mutter curses to myself as I hoist my body up, one leg at a time. I left ballet practice on a high, ready to take on any challenge this bloody company wants to throw at me. What I didn't plan for was an "out of service" lift. I nearly ran straight into the repairman's arm he put out to stop me, and practically shed a tear when he mentioned taking the stairs. This building is 20 floors. My dad's office resides on the top floor. 

I finally reach the floor indicator sign, pressing the button in hopes that I've made at least some progress.

"Floor Eleven."

Fuck!

...

"Floor Fourteen."

My legs. Dear god, my legs. Every step is agony as I climb up the seemingly never-ending staircase. Each breath burns my lungs and dries the back of my throat. Nyla has long abandoned me; she's most likely already at the top. I've passed a few faculty members on my way up, all of them flashing superficial courtesies my way as they only travel between one to two floors. Six more floors to go.

...

"Floor Sixteen."

Fuck Itex, fuck the lift, the repairman, this bloody building, fuck the whole lot of them! Bloody wankers, I will personally see to their punishment in the afterlife! Spineless, incompetent, pinheaded, masochistic, rotten--

...

"Floor Eighteen."

> Farewell. Commend me to my kind lord: O farewell-"

...

I did it. I finally did it. There are no more stairs to climb, no more rails to cling to: I made it, but at what cost? The last leg of stairs deems too much to bare and I sag against the concrete walls until my butt touches the cold floor. This is the end. This as far as I go. I'm ready to take a nap on these rigid floors right now, but the promise of a warm office and a soft couch calls to me. I muster enough strength to crawl up the remainder of the stairs on all fours, like I used to when I was five, and ultimately reach the top of the building. Nyla's smug silhouette sits by the door, her tail gracefully swishing until it wraps itself around her feet.

"Don't look so smug, traitor," I spit out, lifting the ID from my lanyard to the security pad to let us both in. 

Pushing open the door, I'm immediately met with a gust of warm air in stark contrast to the eerily chilly hall behind me. But what was once quiet and still is now frenzied and chaotic; crowds of faculty members collect around the entire floor, shoving past me and the others, frantically shouting on their cellphones, while others just stand in the way.I manage to squeeze past a few doctors before I bump into another and get completely turned around. The bright fluorescent lights make it harder for me to make out shapes, and the monochromatic whiteness of the walls and floors don't help either. Nyla and I somehow separate and I soon find myself enveloped in a particular clump that doesn't seem to be aware of what's to happen tonight. No amount of "excuse me's" or "pardons" can diffuse the people around me. I feel trapped in a slew of white coats and the overwhelming feeling of constriction begins to take hold of me. I really don't like crowds.

As if by a miracle, the crowd dissipates around me and I can breath again. I take a deep breath--and immediately catch a clump of fur in my mouth. More wisps of clumps blow past my cheeks and Nyla is suddenly at my side again, and much bigger now. After spitting the fur out of my mouth, I place a hand on her back between her shoulders, grateful for her presence yet again as I weave my fingers between her rough tiger coat. The claws from her mighty paws scrape across the linoleum floors, her powerful body separates the crowds around us effortlessly. There are days where I wish I could be like her, and then she'll knocks a glass off a table in front of me and that wish suddenly doesn't exist anymore.

I hear Chopin from my father's office growing louder and louder as we reach the glass doors to his office. The linoleum tiles under my trainers soften to carpet, and when the doors swing closed behind me, the chaos outside fades away.

"Hello, Ducky," my father greets me merrily behind a wall of newspaper, which he then neatly folds to the side. We will _not_ speak of the nickname.

An unladylike noise slips out of my mouth as Nyla nudges me to the couch; all my energy _whooshes_ out of my body and I collapse onto the soft cushions face-first.

"Rough day?" His footsteps approach the couch.

I've come to the conclusion that I can only communicate through grunts and groans right now, as I have no energy to form any coherent sentences, let alone one worded responses. He taps my feet and I drowsily flip over onto my back, making sure to bring a pillow to my face to block out the light as it pierces my goggles. My dad gingerly lifts my feet before finding a seat next to me and brings my feet down to his lap while Nyla stretches her limbs in front of us and settles onto the floor.

I finally manage to form a sentence. "Legs...jelly...ten...minutes," I groan, my words muffled by the throw pillow.

He chuckles as he squeezes my shin, but he grants me my request. He says absolutely nothing while my eyes grow heavy and I drift off into a peaceful nap, lulled by Chopin's "Nocturne in B Flat major" from the speakers and Nyla's heavy breathing by my head. I can't tell you how much I needed this.

Minutes pass by before my father gently nudges my legs to wake me. 

"Ducky," he whispers while jiggling my legs again, "we have to prepare for tonight."

Shaking off the sleep from my tired bones, I slide my legs off my fathers lap and sit myself up. I will surely fall back to sleep if I stay on my back. That doesn't stop me from resting my head on my father's shoulder, and he lovingly plants a kiss on top of my head. His stubble scratches my forehead, a sensation so familiar yet so rare these days, I savor it as much as I can.

"After tomorrow, darling, you won't have to work this hard anymore," he vows as he drapes his arm around my shoulders. His silvery voice is so warm and calming, but it's not enough to shake away the suspicion that such a promise is, in reality, a fantasy. I leave his shoulder to stand, careful not to step on Nyla, and begin to pace the floor, sweeping my feet for any obstacle that might appear in my path.

"Can't we review tomorrow? You know, when he's actually going to be here?" I whine. I'm too lazy to want to be quizzed today.

"He decided last minute he wanted to sit in for my inauguration, so we'll see him unaccompanied tonight and with his family tomorrow."

I heave a heavy sigh in surrender. "Alright then, old man. Ask your questions," I challenge him with a smirk and my hands clasped behind my back. He parrots "old man" under his breath with a low chortle before he asks his first question.

"What is his name?"

"Anton Vlamidirovich Gorbachev."

"Is he married?"

"He was, but he and his wife, Karina, divorced eight years ago. It was pretty messy, Karina caught Anton having an affair with with his secretary in the company lavatory, but Anton's since tried to repair their relationship and might actually consider remarrying in the fall." What? I'm a sucker for gossip. I'd somehow managed to snag correspondence with the family maid after a chance encounter at ItexiCon (clever wordplay) of '07. Right before he backed out of his shares after things started to go south for Itex.

"Children?"

"He has four sons, Dimitri, Michail, Kostya, and Alexei. The youngest, Alexei, is about my age; he turns 20 in July. They also have two Borzois named Boris and Maxim. He has no grandchildren yet, but there's one on the way by Dimitri and his wife, Nina. She's six and half months pregnant." My toe taps my father's desk and turn about-face to the other side of the room.

I hear my father lean back against the couch cushions. "Very good. And his hobbies?"

"He enjoys collecting cigars, historical artifacts, and rare photos from the Revolution. Karina enjoys gardening and waterfowl hunting."

"Have you arranged for their gifts yet?"

"Anton's case of Cohiba Behike cigars arrived two days ago; it's being stored in an airtight room on the fifth floor, along with Boris and Maxim's orthopedic beds. Karina's gift was harder to find; there was a lot of red tape and government protections to cut through for her _Cypripedium macranthos,_ but after about four hours on the phone with the head of the department, it should be delivered tomorrow."

My dad pauses for a while and then breaks the silence. "Every day I see you, I think I've seen the extent of what you can accomplish, and yet, you never seize to amaze me."

I brush his compliment off with a wave of my hand. "It all secretary work, really."

He gets up from the couch and gently interrupts my pacing by grasping my shoulders.

"Alexandria Marie Shelly, what you have done for me these past few years is anything but secretary work. You are far more special, far more important than that."

Before I can protest, his hands migrate from my shoulders to each side of my jaw, softly lifting my face to "look" at him. "I want- I _need_ you to know, that I would have never made it to where I am-- Itex would have never been able bounce back the way it did--without your help. I need you to know I'm so proud of you, Ducky."

He wraps his arms around me, enveloping me in a big hug but I can't enjoy it as much as I'd like to. I'm glad he's found happiness in his work, but if it weren't for me, my dad and I could've still been in Oxford; I could have lived a somewhat normal life. My father could've found another job, and I could've pursued a career as a principal dancer. If it weren't for me, I could've had more time with my dad instead of relying on days leading up to important meetings to see him. _No. If it weren't for Maximum Ride._


End file.
